


pick your own trespassers

by doubtthestars



Category: Football RPF, Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Coming Out, F/F, Internal Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 07:56:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11939724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubtthestars/pseuds/doubtthestars
Summary: Nothing in this world is left to chance, especially not the switching of  hearts.Marta, and her journey to Lotta.vaguely inspired by "In a Heartbeat"





	pick your own trespassers

**Author's Note:**

> Massive labor of love before going into retirement from RPF (besides the occasional fic exchange.) Thanks to everyone who ever commented, kudosed and helped spark the muse. 
> 
> title comes from [here](https://68.media.tumblr.com/2dd68b3dc0b666d1d10c732cd542cc6c/tumblr_ot25yigzii1tcqhjho1_540.png)

She wakes up without her heart. 

“Mãe” she gasps out instinctively, unsure and unsteady in her body. It was strange to feel her pulse differ from the heart in her chest that didn’t beat to the same rhythm. She was colder too, goosebumps rising on her arms even in the balmy heat of the Brazilian night. Her sister Angela is still asleep, unaware of the moment, the change in Marta’s world. 

She doesn’t call out for her mother again, only lays back down with the certainty that there was someone else out in the world who held her heart in return. They must be far, she thinks fuzzily, half her brain in ecstatic panic. The pamphlets Jose brought home were faded at the creases and a little dirty but she had read them all the same. 

Some people were lucky enough to get a full impression of their soul’s match, _gifted from God_ , her mother emphasized whenever Jose scoffed at the latest gossip turned hopeful fairy tale that fueled the widows and romantics. Most only got the temperature flash, hot or cold, near or far. 

Chill still clung to her fingers, shock or the remnants of the flash, Marta couldn’t tell. She curls up and tries to ease her mind. Work never waited and once the sun was up, it would be time to get going. 

When she wakes up again, it is almost normal to feel the foreign heartbeat. She is still the same Marta, same dark hair and dark eyes. The same skin, bronzed from being under the sun for as long as it is shining in the sky. There is no secret wisdom to having another’s heart.

“It happened.” She gestures to her chest over a humble breakfast. Valdir snickers because mentally he is younger than she is and always knows how to make a moment inappropriate. Angela’s eyes are wide, watching her like she is another person, a stranger instead of her sister. 

Her mother frowns at the news. It is not what she expected, and her thoughts sink with the dread of wrongdoing. It was like football all over again. 

“You’re still a child, Marta.” The frown spreads to the fine wrinkles on her forehead, her eyes disapproving and completely familiar. “Are you sure?” 

Marta nods, fury under a tight hold. If Jose or Valdir had told her at Marta’s age that they had found someone, it would be a different story. She was the first to switch and no one had a good word to spare over the occasion. 

“I’m sure,” she repeats. 

Another conversation a few months after that one would end in the same words when she takes a bus commute of three days to prove how sure she is about being born to play football.

They believe her in Vasco de Gama and the professional help only makes her better, makes her noticed and she plays for Brazil but Brazil isn’t ready for a girl that plays like her. The team folds and she goes onto the next, but her borrowed heart doesn’t give any indication of being close to its owner. Rio de Janeiro is too south.

She doesn’t mind it. 

Her mind isn’t on boys. It’s on football.

 

[2003]

The United States is different from Canada. They are similar in other ways that startle and delight her. The fast food they sneak out for is not particularly good, but it’s salt and grease and easy to carry. Rafaela laughed like she was tipsy as she hustled back to the hotel, running backwards ahead of the group with her brown bag of fries. The sun was setting and the street lamps caught her hair between night black and brown.

She’s seventeen and playing her first world cup with the senior side. There is so much joy in the world that she can’t help but laugh as well. Marta never would’ve imagined this for herself. She hadn’t left Dois Riachos to travel the world but she had already reached North America twice. 

Cristiane nudges her into Michele for being in the clouds and not contributing to whatever the topic was. 

Katia again told Kelly, who was no better than her sister when it came to love stories, how she met Gabriel and what it felt like to find her heart. It had devolved in the same wishful thinking Marta had always tried to avoid. At least Milene wasn’t with them on the excursion. Everyone knew to avoid the topic around her since her divorce from Ronaldo. 

Marta almost wished Milene was around to have an excuse to keep quiet. 

She had learned what an oddity she was after staying in Rio, the switching of hearts was not meant for fourteen year olds, much less when you were a girl like Marta, who hadn’t had a childhood sweetheart but had used her fists to curb any unwanted advances from the boys who wouldn’t let her play but still managed to notice she was a girl.

“Marta isn’t interested yet, much too busy to think about love and romance.” Cristiane winks. The other girls take it for the joke it is meant to be, so Marta shrugs easily into the save. 

“Yeah, busy scoring the goals you won’t.” She retorts to the ‘oohs’ of the others. Cristiane shoves at her shoulder but Marta is prepared this time and catches her arm for support. She wants badly to make this team the best, and being the best meant scoring enough to get past their opponents. Being the best meant being united whether it was to get fast food or to play beautiful football in a foreign land.

Her blood thrummed in her veins. This was just the beginning.

They had a few days before the quarterfinal against Sweden. She shivered, they were going to the northeast and that meant colder weather than this. The early games hadn’t had trouble with the wind, but once the sun went down, it bit into the the thin windbreaker she had on to keep herself warm. 

She wasn’t used to this weather, but that was part of the adventure. There was nothing more she could ask for than to be here with the team. Marta didn’t need to find her soulmate just yet. 

 

[2004]

Sweden is cold. April meant rain in Brazil. 

She is colder than she’s ever been but she can’t stop smiling, the bubbling mirth in her chest at being in a professional league is overwhelming. Brazil is miles away and she is surrounded by a new language and new customs where the common denominator is football. 

Marta can learn if she is taught. She can speak with a pass and a shot. Smiles in the locker room and diagrams from coaches are universal. Swedish is short and awkward in her mouth. It’s a different sort of music than portuguese but she’s willing to listen. 

The first thing Marta finds in Umea is a church. Her mother would like this narrow chapel with its dark wooden benches. She prays for simple things but important ones like her family’s health, food, and comfort in hard times. She prays for the world especially the children and finds a small fire in her heart for the betterment of her beloved game. 

Let it grow, Let the men notice that girls can play too. Let our dreams be just as important. She murmurs in her own tongue. It’s a selfish want that will never be removed, but she asks in earnestness. There is confessions next, the fears and doubts that plague her to be heard in the silence. Her eyes are tightly shut when she admits her heart is warmer than it’s ever been, even with her family so far away. Guilt mingles with shame at the whisper. It is larger than leaving for a dream.

There are certain assumptions when it come to girls who play football. In Brazil, she had heard it all from angry boys and ever angrier men. 

Marta had always put football first and football meant dismissive, ugly taunts about her gender. She had no dreams of weddings and children. That was bad enough to sting under the wound of words that held no real meaning until she came to another country where it was normal to see. Guilt closed her throat as she bowed her head. 

If God was listening, he would hear the quiet filled with fear, the small agony cut in half by inhaling sharply.

If He were listening, He would know what she meant to fill that silence with.

She gets up, crosses herself, and rubs at her eyes. There is an old woman at the edge of the last pew. No recognition passes through her eyes when they meet hers, but there is compassion, a smile weathered by age. Her heart feels lighter. 

 

She can hear the voices of the crowd chanting Brazil.

Her first Olympics comes with relief. Umea had argued they needed her too much to release her to the national team and Marta had bit her tongue, her Swedish not good enough to argue. She was caught between arguing for her country and arguing for her contract. Both were important and neither side won until the summer tournament.

Glancing down at her boots in the tunnel between the winding minutes before kickoff and the team picture, Marta counts the seconds by the echoes of her heart. It’s hard to tell them apart in the adrenaline and atmosphere. She looks up and around to the others in a loose file. The Swedes aren’t particularly loud next to them, but jubilant nonetheless. 

She knows they are the favorites to get through to the final. It didn’t mean they could leave their guard down. Sweden was consistent and she knew some of the team from their domestic league. They would not go down without fighting for a break. 

Marta meets the eyes of their number thirteen. She’s slight in the way taller girls are, but there’s nothing awkward about her. She smiles with her teeth. 

It’s familiar, that smile, though she thinks her hair color, somewhere between red and brown is new. Formiga nudges her back lightly before Marta can place her. The older woman’s timing is well-honed and impeccable from experience. They march out.

After the match, her heart is heavy, even though they won. Their next test was the United States, the final. 

Baseless fears keep her restless in bed. After ten minutes, she gives up and puts her shoes back on as quietly as she can to go on a run. It would help her clear her mind and the chance to get rid of extra energy. Cristiane rolls over to watch her with barely-cracked eyes but doesn’t comment on her night excursion beyond a “be careful” muffled by her blanket and hair. Marta doesn’t answer, already grabbing her jacket.

She heads towards the main street of the village, following what was familiar. 

The pavement under her soles is rhythmic, easy to get lost in and focus on instead of the tumultuous turns of every thought in her head. It’s because of that, that Marta doesn’t realize someone is calling out to her.

It’s a group of Swedish players on the balcony of the apartment building. Their flag proudly on display off the railing. 

“God natt!” One of them cups their hands around their mouth while another giggles. She continues her greeting with a ‘good game today’, slowly but clear enough to be heard in the distance. Marta waves, shouting out a thanks. One of the blondes bumps the speaker deliberately which sets off more laughter. It’s hard to make out who of the players is all there in the poor lighting. 

She mimes leaving and waves a farewell, getting a chorus of goodbyes in return.

It’s much too late or maybe too early for Cristiane to be up but she was waiting, armed with the lamp light on and a heavy scowl that only put her on edge after the strange encounter with the Swedish girls. 

“I should not be worried as if I were your mother, but I am, so tell me what is wrong, Marta.” Tactless as always. There is a part of Marta that doesn’t mind, that wants to speak up and get rid of the weight of doubt. She is not used to letting her worries fester and bubble under her skin. Marta would rather meet it head on, but this was different, _She_ was different. Her mother would be more than worried. 

“Go back to sleep Cris,” she tries.

“No, I know you, and never have I seen you so wound up. I won’t tell anyone you know. Does it have to do with Umea? If you like Sweden, you can find another team. No one who has seen you play will say no.” If only it were a matter of football on her mind, Marta makes an effort to smile at the compliment even as her chest seized with anxiety. In any other life, she had a feeling Cristiane was meant to be a rival instead of her friend, but still they persisted in aggressively supporting each other.

After all, no one else could understand her quite as well.  
She sighs, climbing into bed and turning the light off. Reasoning and sentiment had won over the monster of fear, but the dark was always better for secret telling.

“Sweden is fine. It’s me. I’m not fine.” She can almost hear Cristiane thinking furiously, wordlessly spinning in multiple directions by just that one confession. Marta’s hands twist the sheets into fists. The tip of her tongue met the edge of her teeth. It wasn’t easy. To string the words together meant to breathe a life into them.

“I like women.” She takes a breath in hastily, “and I’m afraid. You know what they say about us, football being a man’s sport. My mother, my family, they would--it was a battle getting this far, to be accepted. I don’t know if they would accept this.” 

“Forget what they think. What do _you_ think?” Cristiane is a stubborn soul just like her.

Her breath hitches, “I don’t know.”

“Then you should find out.”

 

[2006]

She kisses Johanna, not because it is right or wrong, but because she needs to know it’s not her. Johanna tries to shape her lips to hers for a brief second before pulling away and shaking her head. 

“I’m sorry,” She offers softly, knowing Marta well enough to see the disappointment she’s holding back. In the back of her mind, there is no surprise. Their stories might’ve matched but Marta _likes_ Johanna. It isn’t some magnetic force of nature bringing them together since they were fourteen. It is just an attraction she cannot afford to a friend and a teammate. 

“It was too easy.” Marta refused to sigh, her jaw tight. 

Just because she was certain her heart belonged in Sweden and was coming to terms with what she felt, did not mean her first choice would be the right one to make. 

It had taken her the better part of the season to say something to Johanna, who had shared her experience easily with the team when the soulmate conversation came up as it did every season. Marta had listened carefully when the timing had lined up, and it didn’t help that she had been nursing a crush on the blonde. That she was willing to try made her even more special in Marta’s eyes. 

She shook her head, the wisps of hair that managed to escape being pulled back followed the motion. It was a gamble and it hadn’t paid off. This was why she never gambled on odds. 

There was no good way to say all of the thoughts on her mind so she kept silent until the dark clouds dispersed from her emotions. Thanking her seemed too odd but she was thankful in more ways than one. It was better than picking a stranger at a bar. It was better to know than to doubt for more seasons. It was better that she trusted Johanna enough to witness this first regardless of the consequence. 

“Could I--” she motions with her arms for a hug. It isn’t that she feels alone, but she feels exposed, afraid of the Pandora’s box she has opened with a kiss.

“ _Of course_ , Marta, of course.” Johanna doesn’t hesitate, and it’s comforting, her arms around her, the scent of her soap and shampoo, the shirt against her cheek, soft, and Johanna breathing, the heart that wasn’t hers beating out steadily. 

 

Her borrowed heart skips a beat. 

The reception she gets back home is nothing short of a miracle. 

She is welcomed back to Dois Riachos like a hero. She looks out to the faces of people who doubted her, now praising her. Marta, little Marta who had played football with the boys, with no shoes and a temper bigger than herself had been named player of the year. 

Jose and her mother standing proud makes her vision go blurry. The world knows her by one name, but these people knew her before then. They knew where that name came from and they belonged to it too. She belonged to this municipality and to these people. 

But she could only give them parts of herself and she was determined to give them the very best of that Marta. 

Her mind goes back to the stage, under the lights. It was oddly lonely, indescribable until you get there. So different from the press conference beforehand, she smiled so bravely throughout. It was the difference between confidence before a match and the moments after the match is done, win or loss. Marta had won the hearts of the public.

" _I thank God for all I have achieved so far,_ " she said. " _I'm very thankful to my family, my club, and my team-mates. And, of course, I owe this award to all the people who helped me to get here. I promise I will work very hard in order to be here many times in the future._ "

 

[2007]

 

She missteps. Her head is filled with cotton. 

The summer is busy but Brazil wants to show the world that they weren’t hapless in the face of disarray from the federation. If they didn’t want to give them funds, they would find their own ways. Marta, Cristiane, Rosana, and Daniela were scoring goals left and right in the Pan American Games. 

They play in the Maracana three times and they win them all, including the final against the United States. Marta leaves her footprints with the legends at the stadium and can barely make her head stop spinning before they have to leave for China. 

Rosana is her roommate for the world cup which puts her on edge without reason. It isn’t that she doesn’t like Rosana, but she’s a little envious of her, because she got to have it all without asking for it. Marta can’t even stomach stringing the words together, let alone asking to have the chance for _anything_ with her love life beyond the ordinary.

Not now, not when she’s on top of the world.

Rosana was in Austria, playing and coaching children with her girlfriend and that’s not what Marta needed to think about, but it stuck around, hovering like a rain cloud that had no business being in the blue skies of Brazil climbing up the ranks and showing their best.

“I know we’re not as close as you and Cristiane but if you need to talk about something, I won’t spread it around. I can keep it between us.” 

It’s after the quarterfinals that was a little too close for comfort on the scoreline. 

“What if we lose, what if the Americans get revenge for two months ago and this is all we get to do.” The questions bloom up from her throat quicker than she can suppress them. Rosana gives her a funny look, surprise mixed with something else, like she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. Marta isn’t prone to sharing her doubts, less so with the girls on the national team.

But she had asked. 

“I would like more than silver. I would like the federation to stop fearing us doing better than the men’s team and I want something more than this.” Frustration hums through her fingers. It’s all nonsense. Marta is so grateful for everything she had, but in the face of _more_ she can’t help but examine if it’s hollow victories. Football was always a priority, a need that she got to have. 

Love was something nebulous. Her heart belonged to someone she hadn’t met yet. There were times Marta thought she could follow the feelings, the bubbling of closeness, the pull of some extra sense that told her to ignore common sense.

Rosana hovers, uncertain of what she could offer in response to the outburst.

“What if I never find her,” she closes her eyes, squeezing them shut tightly against the hot sensation of tears waiting to fall. Rosana makes a sympathetic noise before pulling her into a hug. 

“Oh Marta, you can’t give up hope.”

It’s all for naught. Her penalty is saved by Angerer in the final. The germans win the world cup. Marta’s eyes burn with disappointment. 

 

One goal off from top scorer. She watches the news with emotion simmering in her gut. Marta had identified Lotta Schelin long after their Olympic match in 2004, but every time she noticed the woman, that was the memory that cropped up. 

She’s competitive of course, and Schelin had won the title twice in a row while Marta had tied for top the previous two years, barring winning the league with Umea. It was a sort of itch, a minor one that was persistent in its presence. Marta had found the net twenty-five times this season and that was better than all of her previous seasons in the league but it wasn’t quite enough because Lotta Schelin scored twenty-six. 

“ _Heh-line_ ” It gets stuck in her throat, strange on her tongue.

She goes back to her dinner.

[2009]

It’s Pele’s team, but Marta is not Pele.

Two years since the pan american games and two years since she heard the moniker Pele with skirts from the man himself. It doesn’t feel flattering, deep down, to be compared to Pele because it is dooming her name to always be associated with a man and how men play football. It feels like all her work into playing beautiful football will always be shadowed by the worth of men.

She frowns.

“So Johanna,” Cris had cornered her on the van bus, taking the seat next to her with no available escape and no way to end the conversation without someone getting wind of her annoyance. The problem with fame was you were never left alone with your thoughts or actions. Cris at least, was just being nosy as her friend.

Her frown gets deeper, mouth twitching with the urge to snap something out. Marta had hoped by coming back to Brazil, it would quell the speculation over her relationship and put her in a better light. A daughter of Brazil going home, making Santos rise again. Following Pele, again. She shakes her head. 

“Cris,” she says low enough to avoid notice, pleading with her eyes to drop the subject.

Cristiane eyeballs the girls around them before deeming it safe and shrugs easily, practiced.

“You can tell me, you know. She’s nice.” Another shrug, this time more of a hunch than a roll. Marta sighs, blowing air out of her nose midway into it. She leans back in her seat, hard and awkward with scratchy fabric covering the cushions. There is nothing to say about Johanna beyond Marta gave her a chance for a dream, that had gotten tense and cautious after it was all said and done.

“Nothing to say. She’s not here.” She taps her chest with her index finger. Cristiane’s eyes grow wide. She fumbles out her phone and quickly taps out a follow up question, passing it to her without pause. Marta barely looks at the screen before internally groaning at what she had gotten into. 

“Yes, of course. I wouldn’t joke about it, Cristiane.” Her heart sped up, a reflex she couldn’t get rid of and didn’t want to. Marta could weather this storm much better if her instincts were sharp and her fear was tucked away like a sleeping volcano. Cristiane had gotten the same taste of freedom she had in the U.S. At least there, they were appreciated by a specific subset of people, not ogled or shamed for their choice in career. 

Five years hadn’t changed much in the hearts of her countrymen. Marta herself _had_ changed. She wasn’t the nervous eighteen year old that had left the country to find a dream. It left her with a sour taste and a broken heart because she wanted more for this team and more for Brazil. Marta wouldn’t stop until she could change the minds of the federations, until the sport grew the way it should. 

Even if it meant being untouchable. 

It meant denying the rumors and playing better than everyone expects from ‘Pele with skirts’ at Santos. Cristiane pats her hand--that has curled in her lap--and reminds her that she won’t be alone. She will have support in her friends.

 

[2011]

There is familiarity in New York, not only because Maurine had followed her back to the U.S. but Rochester was near water and wasn’t nearly as cold as Umea had been. Los Angeles had been nice and warm. It felt nearly like a dream living and playing in California. Marta laughed herself silly at the thought of getting used to the cold. 

It wasn’t that at all. 

It was more along the lines of that she had grown used to making homes in foreign places. The teams always had some old friends and new ones to make. Marta had known some of them by virtue of playing against them like Christine and Kim Brandão. Seger as captain became a fun-loving talisman who never let her forget her Swedish. 

The best part was being comfortable enough to be herself through their support and the area they had settled in.

Caroline had been the one to push her to do what she wanted, to let go of the image she had to hold and work on the image she wanted for herself. A little less than half of the team were out to their friends if not to the public. 

“Marta, it’s your third year in the U.S., your contract is going to be up and I haven’t seen you on a single date. Go out and enjoy the world or you’ll regret the time you didn’t take to do it.” Caro wags her finger into Marta’s apprehensive face. She made sense, but it never felt like the right time to go beyond a casual fling few and far between.

But Caroline _had_ made sense. 

Jessica is a surprise. She’s funny and sweet and a displaced Swede studying in New York. Marta knows she’s not the one to carry her heart but borrowing her time was pleasant and it didn’t hurt that she wasn’t at all interested in football. 

It was different. 

“But you’re happy?” Cristiane had decided to crash an extra day after their match against each other and cook a meal for her in payment. Going grocery shopping with her was quite the experience. 

“Yes, why do you keep asking? You’re not going to meet her just yet. She can’t make it out here when she has an exam in the morning.” 

Cristiane twirls her fork listlessly. She fixes her stare on her for a second before sighing.

“Would you say you’re in love?” Marta balks at the question, startled at the serious turn in the conversation. Dating was a complicated subject in general, but to be in love without being soulmates? She hadn’t ever considered it. Cris nods, like she had confirmed her suspicions.

“If you don’t take the risk, there’s no reward.” It was a favored quote of their old u19 coach. 

“I’m not telling you there is something wrong if you don’t love her. I just don’t think you’re giving yourself a chance to do so. I know we grew up with the belief that our feet would always lead us to the right person, but maybe this is the right person for this moment. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“But we’re not soulmates.” Marta and Jessica knew that right away. Cristiane raises an eyebrow.

“So? I can date the six billion other people that aren’t my soulmate without harming my belief in someone out there being my match. You can’t just wait for them to suddenly appear. You have to live your life until their life and your life intersect.” She motions with her hands, laying one flat and the other perpendicular to it. 

“If it’s casual, let it be casual, but if it’s nice and makes you happy, let her see your friends and what you do is all I want to say.” Cris stabs a cherry tomato off her plate.

Marta’s rigid pose melts. Her friends _were_ great, and Jessica deserved the chance to meet them, to see her in her natural habitat with a ball at her feet, instead of staying at home or going out to eat. 

“Maybe...maybe next time I’ll invite her to a game. Thank you, Cristane.” She waves her hand in front of her, dismissing the thanks with a scoff. 

“What are best friends for. Seger better know she can’t usurp that from me.” They both laugh at that, easing the rest of the tension out of the room and out of their thoughts. Theirs was too rich a friendship to be so easily broken.

[2012] 

Caroline is easy to understand, not only because they share commonalities but because everything Caroline does is with a purpose that is obvious to Marta. 

This, however was less obvious and more intriguing. She stares down at her phone again carefully. It’s a simple message: congratulations on the win, followed by ‘I asked Seger for your number.’ She knew they were effectively co-captains for their national team and had been friends for longer than that. 

For all the ways their paths had crossed, not once had she thought to give Lotta Schelin her number. It made her nervous, having to use her second language with someone new, but this wasn’t the worst option, she was well-versed in how the Swedish texted. Marta doesn’t respond right away but the urge is there, after her shower, getting in her car, getting dinner ready. 

It’s not until she’s done with the latter that she is ready to tackle the message.

**How is France?** It’s not terribly late and it wasn’t like there was a time difference from Tyreso to Lyon. It’s a safe, if not boring question. She sees Lotta is immediate in replying by the dots that appear. 

It doesn’t take long to go through rounds of questions ranging from favorite goal scored to cats or dogs along with short stories only tangentially connected to a previous statement. It’s an hour and a half before Marta registers the time passed and has to bid her a goodnight. 

The next weeks are filled with Lotta sending her pictures of every dog she sees and Marta sending her the sights around Sweden. She’s not sure if Lotta was ever homesick but she hoped it was enough to brighten her day. Her teammates weren’t subtle in their speculation over what or who was making Marta smile at her phone so often. She had been cured of any attempts at embarrassing prying by her time spent in America. 

Team breakfast was always filled with enough gossip for their greedy hearts anyway. She did notice Seger hadn’t asked once over the mystery. Marta figured it was because Lotta had already informed her of their budding long-distance friendship. After all, weren’t they in the same boat, playing in different leagues and being friends all the same. 

Marta doesn’t hide it from Johanna.

“If it’s not anything than why are you keeping it a secret from everybody else?” It’s not accusing, but it’s damning all the same, especially when Johanna casts doubtful eyebrows her way. 

“It’s not what _they_ think but letting them believe it helps me. Being open about who I date or don’t is great except for the offers of setting me up. Vero, Lisa, and Madeleine have all spent too much time quizzing me on what I like. Even Sembrant has a cousin she wants me to meet.” Johanna laughs with abandon. Marta only puts her hands on her hips.

“You’re lucky I’m in rehab too often to plot with them.” is what she is met with once Johanna composes herself. Marta can feel how her lips twist in displeasure and disappointment. Johanna had always been fighting injuries, but to be captain and out without any foreseeable return date made her ache in sympathy. She had tried to keep it light with humor but Marta had known her for so long, she knew it was determination and stubbornness that drove her in her rehabilitation and watching the team carefully from the bench.

“You’re lucky you’re not overworking yourself. At least Caroline has stopped trying. Every time we paired off for training, she would sneak her questions in, worse than a salesperson.” 

“I think Seger _thinks_ she’s won.” Johanna warns her with a smirk. 

 

“I’m sorry but I have to root for my former team.” Lotta’s apology is completely insincere, especially now that she could see it on screen. Her cheeky grin was ineffectually hidden by her hand as she tried her best to remain serious. 

It always feels like a misstep when attempting to talk in Swedish. She knows it well enough but she hates fumbling with her tongue more than fumbling with a ball. So she listens to Lotta tell her about Lyon’s antics until she goes quiet, humming along to some french song she just _had_ to show her because it had reminded her of Marta.

“It sounds nice. I don’t understand a word.” Marta sees her confusion reflected back to her on the screen and draws her eyebrows together in consternation. Lotta shakes her head, dark hair swaying along loosely.

“It’s music. You feel it.” She practically scolds her with the natural excitement she usually exudes lingering in her overactive hands, punctuating the highs and lows of the song. Lotta sways with her eyes closed for a moment before smiling widely enough that Marta can’t help but smile back.

“It’s about not giving up, seeing your dream come true but you can hear that without the words, can’t you. It’s a good song, meant to pump you up. We play it in the locker room all the time.” 

Marta looks away from the screen, trying to avoid laughing in order not to offend Lotta but she understood the sentiment. It did have that edge of feeling that Marta usually used to fuel her work out session or when she needed to run. 

“And what dreams are left for Lyon?” She teased. Lotta looked up like she was contemplating the answer before shrugging with a smile. 

“I’m sure there is a record we haven’t beaten left somewhere.” Marta’s heart beats hard in her chest. There’s a spark of recognition as she meets her eyes through the camera. It’s the same fire that drives her to keep trying even through the misfortune of her temporary homes becoming smoke. The world may never be ready for women like them but at least they had kindred spirits anywhere they step foot.

“Always hungry for more.” 

“Always,” Lotta echoes warmly. 

[2013]

They meet in the middle in Linkoping. Marta driving from Tyreso and Lotta from Gothenburg. There’s a flurry in her stomach not unlike the snow that had been falling sporadically as they got into winter. It was cold and she was nervous. 

The thing about Lotta is she was comfortable. She was far away and everything was less passionate than Marta had expected when she was younger, but it was perfect. 

It was terrifying after the self-imposed isolation, the paranoia and guilt that accompanied the acknowledgement of her feelings. Lotta kept her personal affairs quiet more successfully than most and Marta had tried her best to stop the slow descent into love. It should have been easy with the distance and the way their lives just missed each other, not quite coming into orbit. 

But Lotta was enchanting. Her candor was easy to want and Marta was very bad at avoiding what her heart wanted. 

“Don’t break your own heart before giving it a chance to spread its wings.” Formiga had told her. It had been about something else, but she had peeled back the layers, had seen her heavy shoulders and itching feet beyond the god given talent and glory.

For all her brash courage, Marta had learned to outrun a problem, to solve it before it became all-encompassing. She was so good at that on the field that somewhere along the way she had tricked herself into believing she could do the same outside of the field. 

This was the first time she had let herself slow down, let the inevitable rule her mind out. 

And she couldn’t rule it out as the wrong choice until she leapt into it fully. This was not Johanna or Jessica, who she had wanted to fit or knew it was a wrong fit and tried it anyway. Lotta hadn’t said much about the switch or how it had happened to her beyond confirming she carried someone else’s heart. There was no pressure from her, so Marta was the one to suggest they meet, to really find out.

“We could grab coffee.” Her stomach wouldn’t cooperate to sit down for a formal dinner. 

Lotta was already in front of the trendy little shop when she got there. Surprise filled Marta along with warmth that contrasted the sharp wind that wanted to burrow under the layers of winter clothing she was wearing. 

“I hope you don’t mind, I got us hot chocolate to go. I wanted to show you something.” She handed her a cup before grabbing her free hand and squeezing it slightly through the glove. Marta nodded, trusting her to navigate the city she didn’t know beyond the little she saw from the stadium.

“Okay,” she paused, before thanking her for the drink that helped her forget about the chill. Their hands were still linked, causing her to stay close and walk fast.

“Caro told me I shouldn’t underestimate our popularity, so I thought we could be anonymous for a while.” Marta suddenly remembered Caroline had started her career in Linkoping. No wonder Lotta felt comfortable with whatever direction they were headed. She was right about blending in, no one gave them a second look on the street.

“Where are we going?” Marta finally asks as they crossed a narrow alley between buildings.

Lotta’s eyes are bright, her smile not all the way visible under the scarf wound around her neck but she can practically feel it from this close.

“It’s a surprise, Marta.” She laughs, tugging at her hand to speed them up. Joy cracks open down her spine as she hears her name from Lotta in person. The sun is getting lower in the sky, catching the red in Lotta’s long hair and making it glow like fire. 

They’re weaving a path through dead trees until she can barely see the steeple of the church that rose above the rest of the buildings. Lotta stops, turns around and blocks the view in front of her. They are by a lake, somehow still not frozen over. Marta looks up, her winter boots still not enough to match Lotta’s height, but giving her a good boost to not awkwardly stare at her neckline. 

“I thought the sunset would be nice to look at here.” She sounds faintly embarrassed admitting it. Marta’s heart is quick in anticipation. 

“No matter what happens. I’m glad you’re here with me.” Lotta meets her eyes, determination lining her face. It’s enough to make Marta tip closer, hands grabbing her scarf. Lotta’s face is red with the cold. Their noses bump together gently, Lotta lets out a slight giggle. It’s a distraction that leads to Marta tasting the slight peppermint that must have laced her hot chocolate. Lotta’s gloved hands come up to cradle her head, changing their position slightly. 

It’s a free-fall into surrender. 

She opens her eyes to see Lotta framed in light, lit up from behind. Lotta stares at her with quiet wonder. It’s not earth-shattering, but a hiccup between one heartbeat and the next. It’s a shift like finally breaking in boots to a point of comfort. Her heart is back in place. 

Lotta has her hand to her chest, breath misting into the air.

They watch the sun set. Lotta pulling her close into her side. Hope and happiness mingled at her fingertips. 

 

“What made it happen?” Marta used her hands to clarify the question touching her chest. Why did their hearts trade places at the moment they did. Lotta smiled and turned slightly away, red creeping down from the tops of her cheekbones.

“The doctors told me I should give up my dream of playing football professionally. I told them I would rather die.” She looks sheepish at the dramatics, but Marta gets the sentiment. 

There was an old belief in Brazil that said nothing was left to chance, especially not the switching of hearts because that was the moment you were marked worthy of your soulmate.

Marta seeked out her hand, carefully sliding their fingers together. Now she understood.

 

[2016]

It’s a love story that lands in Malmö that season. 

Ella and Erin are familiar faces from Chicago and Canada respectively. Marta and Ella become fast friends when Ella underestimates the cold weather and Marta gives her the extra scarf she packed in her bag. 

When they host a get together dinner, Marta isn’t afraid to touch on the subject that had been tread on lightly by others. She liked Ella and Erin, liked the spirit of their companionship, and their dog was always happy to see her. 

“Did you find your one?” Ella passes her the salad bowl to help herself from. Marta smiled. It was hard to keep from announcing it to everyone, especially since Lotta’s contract with Lyon was going to be done in june and she had already been negotiating with Rosengard. Not only to see Marta more often, but because she wanted to come back to Sweden and Marta already happened to be there.

“Yes, would you like to hear the story?” It was fate that brought her to Sweden. 

Lotta’s first game was celebrated like a victory, not only because Marta kicked in the cross that led to their first goal together, but because it tied up the score with Djurgardens in the 90th minute. She had to restrain herself on the field, peppering kisses on her face in the locker room to the amusement of their teammates.

The news of being in the same group for the Olympics is less amusing.

Brazil hosting the Olympics is extraordinary, tough on the country but unforgettable in the way that everyone came together to celebrate the victories of their countrymen and women, no matter what sporting event. The opening ceremony was a wonder and Marta being chosen to carry the flag only added to the excitement.

“I can show you around Rio, you know.” She tucks Lotta’s hair back behind her ear. They try not to worry too much about the upcoming group stage, especially since they didn’t face one another for the first match. 

“Okay,” Lotta’s smile never ceases to bring up butterflies in Marta. 

It’s infinitely harder to be involved with someone who should be competition. Marta wanted Lotta to do well, but not as well as Brazil. Being the host nation meant hope riding on them to go all the way to gold. It didn’t matter that the men’s team were also in the football competition because it was the younger faces and Neymar.

The women were the same team that had been in the world cup and the people knew the better than some of the young men.

Brazil was going to be watching them because football was the diamond of sports, the glory they always wanted to have but never managed to hold onto.

“We’re going to go back to your old stomping grounds, Marta. We’ll get to Maracana, one way or the other. All of us want gold this time. Nothing else is acceptable and we will not accept defeat because this is our game and this is our land. Show them how football is played in Brazil.” China would be sent packing.

Marta didn’t manage to find a goal in the first but she didn’t worry. 

“Are you mad at me?” It was a brutal game against Sweden. She wouldn’t have blamed Lotta for holding it against her, even with the consolation goal she managed to get past Barbara in the last minutes of the game. 

“No,” Lotta is curled up in bed, ready to fall asleep. “No, I’m mad at losing, but I’m not mad at you, though getting a penalty and a goal by yourself was a little annoying considering we were already losing.” 

Marta shifts closer, tucking her head down to hear Lotta’s heartbeat.

“Still,” she whispers, barely opening her mouth to speak,”I’m--I know how it feels.” Lotta hummed in agreement before wrapping an arm around her.

“Might still go through.” Marta stays awake until Lotta’s breathing evens out into rest and she thinks no matter what happens, Lotta makes her happier than football and that is something precious. Love is more precious than winning.  
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” Caroline winks at her before they go out on the field of the Maracana. Marta shares a tired look with Lotta, both at the helm of their teams with the bands on the arms and the pennants in their hands. Sweden and Brazil had both gotten through a round of penalties to get here and there was still the semifinal to get through before coming back to this very same stadium for the final. 

“Stop hitting on my girlfriend.” Lotta says it in Swedish, just to make sure no bystander would understand. Caroline only grins harder, forever smug that her suspicions had been right and they had gotten together with her small helping hand. 

“But it’s fun.” Lotta seemed like she was going to continue dissuading Caro until the whistle blew and they had to jog out for the coin toss and the lineup pictures.

The game is brutal in a different way than the last time they faced each other. There’s no one with a clear upper hand no matter how many time they break through defenses. Sweden under Sundhage is a master class in grace. 

It isn’t until Cristiane is subbed in for Debinha that Marta feels exhaustion licking at her heels. It’s a long 120 minutes before she seeks out Lotta, to help her in some small way to lift her spirits up. As captains, they go first in unspoken unison. Marta, then Lotta and they both convert. Cristiane goes next. 

Lindahl saves her penalty. Marta’s heart pounds wildly. Asllani’s is saved by Barbara and she could kiss her. Caroline, Andressa, Rafaelle and Nilla pass by too slowly and in the blink of an eye. 

Andressa fails to convert her penalty. Lindahl guessing right and punching it away. Marta’s nerves are fraught. It is down to Barbara against Dahlkvist. Barbara, who jumps a couple of time in the net before blowing out a breath. Marta concentrates, the power of belief that she could save this moment, that Barbara can be the hero.

The moment slips past her fingers. Barbara yells at the ground, fist pounding against it like a child throwing a tantrum. Marta looks away from the blue shirts all flocking to each other to celebrate. She starts consoling her teammates before it gets to be too much, too overwhelming to get this close and lose it.

“Marta,” Lotta finds her in the middle of bodies, hugging her before she can make a sound. 

She isn’t angry, but she is sad.

It takes her the full three days before the bronze medal match and the final to find the words to let go of that sadness in order to tell Lotta to win, that she believes they can win. It’s one of the toughest things she’s ever had to do in her life concerning the sport she loved.

“I love you and that will never change. So go show them what you can do.” Lotta keeps her in her arms that morning, silently wiping a sleeve under her eyes.

“This isn’t the end for you. Let the men carry the weight on their shoulders for a little while. You’ll be back in four years. It won’t be Brazil, but you will get another shot at the gold. I believe in you too.” Lotta kisses her forehead before laughing a little. 

“Even if I end up with silver, I still have you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I went into massive research spirals for this and still probably got dates wrong because the swedish league and french league have different seasons and as always, this is fresh out of the box, not proofread. 
> 
> If you're at all interested in Marta's journey and want to indulge me, pls read [this](http://thesefootballtimes.co/2016/07/11/the-greatness-of-marta-in-a-still-sexist-game/) and [this](https://www.theplayerstribune.com/marta-brazil-letter-to-my-younger-self/)


End file.
